


Motions of Water

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-30
Updated: 2003-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring break in Australia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motions of Water

1\. Toward the sea

Tomorrow, hopefully, the rain will stop. Beneath the patter of droplets if Viggo listens hard, he can hear the roar of the ocean, just past the gravel drive and the line of trees.

He is sitting on the porch of the rented cabin with his feet propped on the railing, a journal balanced on his knees. The humidity curls the pages, softening their texture so ink dilates on the paper.

28 September 2000, Viggo writes, in the European fashion. The deadly logic of the rainforest, where pioneers into the sunlight have the best weapons. They don't hide in the shadows, they are the fittest and they survive. Sun breaking against the rippling surface of the Pacific. Mist shrouding the mountains and trees like a floating veil. Dead brown coral we walked on. Star patterns, balls of sand made by little spider crabs. Swamp (billabong) where the tree roots were skinny, hollow, above water.

Beneath his soft cotton shirt he's sweating. He thinks about taking it off completely and going out to stand in the rain. It's a still, heavy atmosphere even under the porch. All of the other tourists renting cabins are indoors, and Orlando is under shelter as well, napping with the warm, wet air as his blanket.

In Sydney it was always hot. In Sydney they rubbed shoulders with athletes from Brazil, tourists from Hong Kong, Olympics volunteers from Canada. The city was full of cement and pavement that blasted the sun's heat back against the body. Skin tightened up in protest as it met the city streets, sweat glands squeezing away moisture.

Wandering drunk, they discovered a park where magnificent trees arched tall and dark over the grass. There was a huge fountain with lights under the spraying water, and an overgrown chessboard that would have been life-size for BK. Later, they stumbled out into a square and were boggled by a crowd of people sitting on the cement, all eyes focused intently on a gigantic TV screen.

The live Olympics feed zoomed in for a close-up of Ian Thorpe shooting across the pool like an underwater missile. Viggo's vision was filled with the swimmer. "Christ, that's not fair," he declared. "They grew him bigger than everyone else."

"I think he's massive, yeah," Orlando agreed, carefully steering Viggo's clumsy feet away from laps and hands. "But don't blame him for the Yanks being so shrimp-like."

"Nonono." Viggo stopped short and threw his hands in the air. "Aragorn son of Arathorn challenges you to a rematch!" he shouted, just as Thorpe touched the edge of the pool.

The crowd in the square had already erupted into cheers. He spun wildly as people sprang to their feet, throwing him off balance. "Whoa, man," Orlando chuckled, catching him around the shoulders.

Viggo clung back. "Thanks." One hand flailed and found Orlando's cheek, patting it gently. Soft, boyish stubble scraped his palm. "I think I need to kind of sit down, possibly."

"What, here?"

"Here would be *great*."

Obligingly, Orlando guided him down to the pavement. The warmth seared through Viggo's pants; he wriggled his ass against the heat and stretched out his legs, earning a few glares from people nearby. He grinned back at them, waved at a little boy peeking around his mother's arm.

"Don't mind him," Orlando pronounced, to no one in particular. "He's American."

Viggo thought that was hilarious. "I speak more non-English than you, elf boy. Not to mention better Elvish." But after a moment he shifted around so their backs pressed together, leaning his head against Orlando's. He closed his eyes and waited for the alcohol to settle down.

The people in the square were still cheering, and the television announcer rattled off statistics like an overexcited machine gun.

"The giant's just a kid," Viggo marveled. "Hey, Orli, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three, remember? You were at my birthday party. You got pissed as a newt and chased Billy down the beach with your trousers."

Viggo smiled, remembering Billy's shrieks. "That was a good party."

They sat in the middle of the square while the celebration blossomed around them. Crowds were interesting, Viggo thought. The crush of so many bodies, the way people moved differently when they didn't have room to move, the heat generated between complete strangers. Sweat poured freely down Viggo's back, soaking his shirt and Orlando's. He could feel muscle and bone, and each breath Orlando took.

"I'd *kill* for rain, man," Orlando said.

"I'd kill for an ocean," Viggo returned. "There should be an ocean right next to us, now that I think about it."

"I dunno. Seems it's mostly like harbor hereabouts."

"That's not good enough. Find me an ocean, elf boy," Viggo ordered.

"Right," said Orlando. "Give me five minutes."

It took five days. Five days of driving, aiming their car north toward the Great Barrier Reef, with occasional detours for the rainforest that grew right down to the beaches. Sydney to Brisbane, Brisbane to Cairns. ("Cans?" Viggo said. "I think I speak *English* better than you, Orli.") The car windows open, the breeze rushing in.

All the way up the coast the sun shone into the car, turning the exposed parts of their skin reddish gold. He let Orlando blast English rock bands on the car stereo, grinned when Orlando belted out the words to the songs, flinging them into the wind. He pictured the way the Pacific would be when they finally found a place to stop beside it, the clear water shimmering against the sand.

The first raindrop hit their windshield just as they found the cabins by the beach.

*

The pen halts on the page, a drop of ink spreading out, vein-like, from its point. Words drift through Viggo's head, sentence fragments about sunlight on open roads and new, uneroded countries. In them he can glimpse a possible poem. It's been weeks, he thinks, since he wrote a poem. It's not a thing warrior-kings often do.

He tries to determine an order for the lines, a rhythm that will pull them into a coherent whole, but it takes a while of scribbling and scratching out before he admits the solution eludes him. He feels a little sick, suddenly. Too much heat, too-thick air.

Viggo stands, dropping the journal to the chair. He toes off his moccasins, bracing against the railing for balance. Rain and run-off water from the roof splash onto his fingers. With wet hands he pulls his shirt over his head and pushes down his shorts and boxers. The clothes pile in a damp, sweat-soaked heap by the chair.

Naked, Viggo leaps off the porch. The rain hits his body with a sudden cold and he whoops, long and loud, louder than all the water.

The gravel stings his bare feet. He can feel the water wash down his torso and back and legs, through his hair and down his neck. It's a world-sized shower, and it carries away all the heat and sweat, the clouds in his brain. He raises his arms up again, like the night in the square in Sydney, flinging his head back so the rain falls on his tongue.

Laughter from the porch. Viggo looks around and sees Orlando in the doorway. "What are you doing, fuckwit?" Orlando calls, his grin huge, his arms crossed over his bare chest. "Don't you know your naked white arse could put the eyes out of everyone from here to New Zealand?"

Viggo shakes his head vigorously, flinging water back out into the rain. "Since you ask so politely, I'm getting my naked white arse clean."

Orlando doesn't miss a beat. "And 's about time, filthy human! Be sure to get all the hard-to-reach places, yeah?"

"Actually, you know," Viggo says, and slowly turns around, dragging his gaze up Orlando's long, lean body. "You're not looking like your usual Miss Priss self. I think you might be needing a bath of your own."

Orlando uncrosses his arms and stands up straight as Viggo lets a feral smile spread over his lips. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Really?" Viggo stalks closer. "Doesn't look like it."

"Think you need your eyesight checked, like." But Orlando edges back inside the house.

Viggo lets out another whoop. He charges the porch and Orlando makes a mad dash for it. But Orlando's laughing while he runs, and eventually, of course, he ends up in the rain as well.

*

Later during sex they speak softly to each other, nonsense words that get lost in the downpour outside. Viggo licks rainwater off of the sun tattoo on Orlando's stomach, making him hum. It tastes salty on his tongue: a residue, perhaps, of sweat or ocean.

They've soaked and tangled the sheets with activity. The rough fabric of the mattress, exposed at one corner, scratches Viggo's heel. Orlando explores the spent softness of Viggo's cock with gentle fingers. "You need another bath," he says, and Viggo can feel his lips smiling against his neck.

In his head the poem comes closer together, beginning to coalesce. You, Viggo thinks. You getting beneath my skin, you brother in arms, you lover in arms. He turns in Orlando's embrace and the bed creaks like an old friend.

Dark eyes, half-shut in the dim light. Orlando has one of those faces that's perpetually alert and questioning, and the sight of it at peace always strikes Viggo as a profoundly intimate, private thing.

He feels, for a moment, how useless it would be to write this poem down. Some things you can only say out loud, or never say at all.

*

2\. Motions of water

That night the rain slows to an intermittent drizzle and they decide to hike up to the main building. There's a bar and beer on tap, billiard tables and a TV in the corner playing teeny American pop videos. They drink like men coming in from the desert, and Orlando talks Viggo's ear off about everything from British comedy to surfboard wax to Christina Aguilera. Viggo's brain guzzles with pleasure as he watches Orlando's mouth, but he likes it even more when Orlando, frustrated by the noise, leans close to speak in his ear.

A bunch of uni students on spring break crowd their table, and Orlando rolls his eyes. "Let's take a walk, mate," he says to Viggo, pulling him up and out into the night.

There's a little creek running between the cabins and the beach itself. They stand on the wooden bridge with their shoulders touching and piss into the water, giggling at each other like schoolboys. Then Orlando grabs Viggo's hand and draws him toward the sound of the ocean.

The sky is still mostly overcast with rain clouds; the beach is deep and dark. Viggo orients himself by following the crash of the waves and feeling the sand get wetter and wetter beneath his feet.

They walk. The night is so black that eyesight never adjusts, and at one point when Orlando wanders off Viggo feels a moment of panic. "Orli?" he calls, searching in vain for a sign of movement. He remembers the vague warnings of crocodile activity posted around the cabin, and holds out his hands as if one is crouching right in front of him.

Stumbling forward, blind, he walks straight into Orlando, who promptly curses and falls down on the sand.

"There you are," says Viggo. He plops himself down as well, landing half on Orlando's foot.

"Ow, Vig, geroff."

"Sorry, sorry."

Orlando's hands wander over his chest, pulling and pushing at him until they're sitting next to each other in the warm, shifting sand. "So," he says, "what are we doing tomorrow?"

Viggo thinks of the Olympic swimmer, reversing direction with a powerful flip in the cool chlorine-blue pool. "Let's go swimming."

"Maybe snorkeling?"

"And scuba diving."

"Yeah?" Orlando says. "Yeah, that'd be like awesome, man. I've heard it's fantastic on the reef."

Viggo nods, even though Orlando can't see him. "I heard that too."

In the darkness they share a kiss. Viggo leans on one elbow, his other hand cradling the base of Orlando's skull. Orlando's hair is growing out. Viggo can feel it, thin between his fingers.

After a moment Orlando speaks. Viggo can feel his breath panting slightly as he asks, "Do you want to? On the beach?"

Viggo kisses him again in reply. Gentle at first, then, as arousal sets in, showing Orlando exactly how much he wants to.

They shed their clothes. Viggo grips Orlando by the hips, slides his hands up to count his ribs and trace around his shoulder blades. Shivery hot skin, wiry muscles jumping at Viggo's touch. Orlando drapes himself over Viggo, the two of them stretched out on the sand.

"Uhhh," Viggo sighs. Orlando makes a sound like a laugh. He turns around on top of Viggo and crawls back down his body, engulfing Viggo's erection in his mouth.

Reaching up, Viggo guides Orlando's cock toward his own lips, returning the favor. Orlando's chest bumps against his stomach, knees digging into the sand on either side of Viggo's head. His hands and mouth, everywhere.

There's a feeling in Viggo's body of being drawn out of himself, as if Orlando's conjuring a hidden spirit. Things tightening, gathering, readying themselves. He tries to make Orlando feel the same things, licking the smooth sensitive tip of his penis, pulling him deeper into his mouth.

They do this well, giving each other pleasure. They've learned to move their bodies in time with each other, to read signals in motions and breath. Finally Orlando begins to writhe above him, thrusting his hips jerkily. Viggo lets himself go in turn.

Orgasm like a massive push to the chest, body jerking from the impact. He presses his shoulders hard into the ground and arches his back, the briny, slippery feel of Orlando's come a sudden taste in his throat.

All thoughts, all restless mental rustlings are reduced to the crash of water against land. Viggo sinks into the warm cushion of sand, the ocean pounding through his brain.

Orlando slides off of him an ageless, endless amount of time later. "Thank God," he grunts, from somewhere around Viggo's hipbone.

"Huh...?" Viggo tries to raise his head, but it's too heavy for his neck. He remembers, as well, that it's too dark to see Orlando anyway.

"Thank God you came on holiday with me."

Viggo smiles and strokes the inside of Orlando's arm. "Well," he says, "I knew we'd have a good time."

*

29 September 2000

Deep. Scuba diving. The velvety rainbow coral and an entire other world minding its own business just a foot beneath the boat. Sputtering for air, inhaling salt water. Orlando's strong arm my lifeline much more than the unnatural oxygen from the tanks. Silver fish, a ghostly turtle fading into the blue-green ahead of us. A giant iridescent-edged clam almost closing on my fingers. Later, Orlando snorkeling at the surface and diving down to grab a suck of air from my mouth.

I feel that the simple ability to do this, to have access to this, is life-changing.

*

Their last night on the Reef, they are dirty from a day of horseback riding, sticky with ocean, browner and fitter, somehow, than they've gotten after a year in New Zealand. Finally, too late, the sky stretches overhead in a brilliant, clear pattern of stars, the sunlight fading in purple and orange behind them.

Instead of sleeping in the stuffy cabin again they spread the bed sheets on the sand. Viggo gets a mash of stew going over a small fire, puffing on a cigar while it cooks. Grinning, Orlando takes the cigar from him, putting it to his own mouth and pretending to choke. Viggo cuffs him over the head, then pulls him close and kisses him, the thick cigar scent floating between them.

In the morning they will pile into the car again and drive, hell-bent for leather, back to Sydney. They have a plane to catch, a production to resume, a fellowship to rejoin. They will put on costumes and armor again, carrying weapons into battle.

For now, though, New Zealand is still miles and days away. Viggo kisses Orlando on the sand, and thinks how useless it would be to write poems about this. They are already being spoken.


End file.
